


Safe

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are hiding in plain sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starfishstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishstar/gifts).



Anthea did nothing so obvious as smile as she placed the file folder on Mycroft's desk, but he knew she was moderately amused by something. Mycroft raised one patrician brow and glanced meaningfully at the plain, grey cardboard before fixing Anthea with a _look_.

“New surveillance, sir.”

“I don't recall requesting an update on this subject.”

She continued, undeterred. “There's been a change in DI Lestrade's status, sir.” She answered Mycroft's brow raise with an ever-so-slight tilt of her head. “You requested an update should one occur.”

Mycroft sniffed. “Thank you. I have a meeting with the prime minister at eight.” It was a dismissal—Anthea would never need to be reminded about any meeting Mycroft had on the docket. Anthea dipped a shallow nod and left him alone in his sleekly appointed private office. He knew what was in the folder: pictures, security camera stills, phone transcripts, personal missives. Anything pertaining to a recent change in DI Lestrade's relationship status.

Mycroft tapped his finger on the folder in a ponderous rhythm. He could look, he knew, and no one but Anthea would know. No one would care. It was expected of him. Lestrade was tied to Sherlock, and any intelligence that might reflect upon Sherlock was Mycroft's purview. The folder was thin, the change in relationship status new. Pictures would be scant, grainy. Nothing too personal. Perhaps a blurry figure rushing from a cab to the door of Lestrade's flat. Or a flash of a face, Lestrade's most likely, grinning at someone across a crowded cafe table during a rushed lunch break. Mycroft's fingers slid to the edge of the folder, toying with the thickness of the cardboard. He could glance, see for himself, see the list of numbers called from Lestrade's personal mobile, see any personal emails sent from his work account... Instead, he picked up the folder and slipped it into the under-desk shredder, listening to the quiet hum as the contents became ribbons.

*** 

Three days after the folder, Anthea placed a thumb drive on his desk. “Surveillance, sir.” 

Mycroft sighed—not his _Sherlock, you enormous knob-head_ sigh but rather a slightly heavier than typical exhalation through his nose that most people (anyone who was not Anthea or Sherlock) would overlook. “The detective inspector again?”

Her expression did not change but the amusement was an undercurrent in her response. “Yes, sir. You wished to be notified...”

“Is he dating my brother?” 

“No, sir. I believe Doctor Watson would be most displeased if that became the case.”

“Then this is unnecessary.” He pushed the thumb drive back across the desk towards Anthea. 

The corners of her lips tightened in what Mycroft knew was a smile. “Yes, sir.” She rose, gathered her tablet and paperwork, and departed, but left the thumb drive.  
Mycroft ignored the slim, silver rectangle on his desk for the better part of three hours. It remained there during two calls with the Americans, a brief text exchange with Sherlock, an even more brief text exchange with John, and call on his personal line from Wilson, the housekeeper who oversaw the Holmes family vacation cottage in Bognor Regis. Finally, Mycroft had two minutes without a phone in his hand, and the temptation to touch the thumb drive became nearly overpowering. He slowly pulled it back across the desk and placed it atop his old fashioned blotter. He knew what would be there: video surveillance. Probably more clear than the grainy security footage shots that had most likely been in the file folder. Perhaps Lestrade's date would be visible. There would certainly be audio (muffled, swarming with interference, but hints of voices would be captured).  
Would he be able to hear the way Lestrade murmured to his date? Leaned in and suggested they go to the pub down the way? Asked if they were cold, if they would rather catch a cab instead of walk? Mycroft ran his fingernail over the silver surface and closed his eyes. He didn't need to watch the videos. He opened the slender drawer near his knee and took out a screwdriver. It took less than five minutes to destroy the thumb drive.

*** 

A month after the thumb drive, Anthea left nothing on his desk. Instead, she stared. She stared down at Mycroft from the height afforded her by her stiletto platform heels and by virtue of his remaining seated. She stared, and he stared back. He barely needed to do more than glance at her to gather all the necessary information about this visit: her tiny, unobtrusive silver pin in the form of a star a nod to the season, her hair pushed over one shoulder and part changed ( _ran fingers through it repeatedly, fidgeted in lift_ ), green eyeliner rather than usual dark brown... Mycroft sighed inwardly. Anthea rarely drank and, while she was not _drunk_ as she towered over his desk, she had ingested enough of the eggnog ( _small spot near her lapel, one indulgence at the holidays, drank too fast, temper temper temper..._ ) to loosen her tongue. “You haven't looked at any of the surveillance I have provided, sir.”

“Incorrect.”

Anthea's eyes narrowed a fraction. “You haven't looked at any of the surveillance pertaining to DI Lestrade, sir.” 

“Correct.” He raised his fingers in a small gesture of surrender. “I have no need, Anthea.” 

She inhaled slowly, silently, rolling her shoulders back and tipping her chin up in a defiant gesture he had only seen twice before since she had been in his employ. “Sir, I am well aware this is not my place--”

“Good evening, Anthea.”

“Sir, I must insist--”

“Happy holidays,” he continued as if she had not spoken. He pushed away from his desk and moved past her, gathering his coat and scarf from the old fashioned rack by the office door. “I am sure the world will not suffer for my absence between now and the second.”

Anthea clenched her jaw so tightly, Mycroft made a mental note to ensure she remembered to schedule herself a dental appointment in the new year. “Yes, sir.”

He held the door open for her. “You should rejoin the party, Anthea. Enjoy the holiday.”

“Sir...”

“I will see you on the second.” He doffed his hat, standing aside and smiling thinly as Anthea passed, ignoring her side eye glare.

***  
Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed an honest-to-goodness, bone-deep sigh. The fire had been roaring by the time he reached the cottage in Bognor Regis and a pot of spicy herbal tea had been waiting on the pie crust table near his favorite chair. “Thank you, Wilson,” he murmured in the darkened room.

“Oi, why should Wilson get all the thanks? Nearly did myself a damage, getting that flue opened.”

Mycroft grinned, turning to find Lestrade—Gregory, he reminded himself, outside of work it was Gregory—standing in the study doorway. “Wilson should have done it for you.”

“Wilson is eighty and has the agility of an arthritic turtle and you know it.” Greg crossed the room in a few long strides and slid his arms around Mycroft's waist. “Missed you, too.”

“It's been three days,” Mycroft said, voice barely above a whisper as they pressed foreheads together gently. “You packed my bag for me.”

“I hate having to be all cloak and dagger,” Greg sighed, brushing his lips across Mycroft's. “Shhh, I know,” he interrupted when Mycroft began to protest. “Safety, I know.” He breathed out softly against Mycroft's cheek. “I know these things take time to set up, to make happen.”

“By February,” Mycroft promised, his fingers tightening on Greg's back. 

“Is Anthea still hinting?”

“She thinks I'm letting an opportunity slip through my fingers.”

“And what lovely fingers they are,” Greg leered, earning an eye roll and a light swat on the bum. “I don't think I want to know what tier of security is involved if Anthea isn't even aware.”

Mycroft's smile was tight. “Safety isn't just for us. Anyone who could be... harmed...for information...”

Greg cut him off, pulling him in for a deep, sinking kiss. After an eternity that passed in a minute, they pulled apart. “Enough for now. We have a week together, yeah? No sneaking in through underground car parks, no convoluted routes, no ridiculous hats to cover our faces...”

“That was one time. And it was not ridiculous. I look smashing in a fedora.”

“Aw, your ickle wounded pride.” Greg laughed and began waking Mycroft backwards towards the sofa near the fireplace. “Should I kiss it and make it better?”

“Gregory...”

“We have a week,” Greg said, brooking no arguments. “A week without having to pretend like we're barely aware of one another. A week where it's just the two of us. Let's pretend,” he said pausing to tug off Mycroft's tie, “that it'll always be like this and whatever comes between the second and February is something to worry about later.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and dropped his chin. “I do love you.”

“Me, too.” Greg tugged at Mycroft's belt. “Now. Enough maudlin. Take off your kit and let me jingle your bells.”

“I've changed my mind. I don't love you.”

“Oh, come on! Holly your jollies?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Kiss me, you great git.”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
